


Lydia's Guide to Better Living (this title is misleading)

by Squidink



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Bathing, Captivity, Non-Consensual Touching, Non-Sexual Submission, Other, i am a monster
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-09
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-28 22:10:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/997515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Squidink/pseuds/Squidink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lydia just wants everything to be clean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lydia's Guide to Better Living (this title is misleading)

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from the Breaking Bad kink meme: " _Lydia sees Jesse and his working conditions for the first time. His filth both disgusts and excites her, and she demands that Todd to bathe Jesse while she watches. Anxious to please Lydia, Todd agrees much to Jesse's horror. While he hates being dirty, he hates being used even more. The bath turns into more as Lydia instructs Todd to do things to Jesse as she gets off on his humiliation and terror. Todd would never dream of saying no to anything Lydia desires_."
> 
> I don't know what happened, but I did not actually set out to write this the way it turned out, exactly. I am very sorry, OP. Also, titles are hard, yo.

The lab is very clean, very sterile.  The _cook_ , however, is not.

Lydia, of course, knows he is not here by choice; Todd has done her the courtesy of removing whatever means of restraint they have deemed necessary, but she is not a stupid woman.  She can see the run in the ceiling, the shuffle of the cook’s steps.  It isn’t hard to put two and two together.  Still, she appreciates the gesture, even if she does not appreciate the smell.

“Todd,” she begins, smiling sweetly, if slightly strained, behind her handkerchief. “I do value the significant upscale in purity.  Our… overseas investments have responded quite well to the new Blue Sky.”  Todd is almost glowing, rocking up onto his toes and back down.  He keeps glancing aside at the cook, who hasn’t once even bothered to meet Lydia’s eyes.  She can understand, to a degree, his reticence, but this is a business, there are certain rules of etiquette, and one golden rule is acknowledging one’s employer. “However…”

Todd’s face crumples completely, open and guileless as the sun. 

“However, the state of our… _employee’s_ … condition is hardly what I would call up to our basic requirements.” She sniffs demurely, and immediately wishes she hadn’t.  Lydia does not understand why this interview could not be conducted outside, where there is at least open air.  “We are—” her voice ticks up an octave, and she has to take a moment to clear her throat before resuming.  “We are running a business, and a business has to be held to certain standards.”

With heartbreaking earnestness, Todd puts a hand on the cook’s shoulder, almost defensively.  It’s really quite sweet. “Ms. Quayle, Jesse is a good cook—”

“Todd, I know he cooks well.  He cooks— very well.  But would you—” she feels a sudden pang of nerves, and has to cross her arms briefly.  The cook’s condition is making her nervous.  She doesn’t like to see this sort of thing.  He won’t even look at her.  “Would you eat in a kitchen where the chef is filthy?”

Todd shuffles from foot to foot, stares down at his boots like a boy caught by his teacher doing something naughty.  He reaches out and fiddles with the cook’s shirt, almost absently.  The cook doesn’t even blink.  “No, I can’t say I would.”

“I have to ask why things were allowed to,” Lydia pauses to search for the right word, “to _degrade_ to this point.”

“Well,” Todd hedges. “We don’t really have a lot of spare time, what with our quota to meet. And what with Uncle Jack.  Jesse had a… moment, and Uncle Jack felt that it would, would be appropriate to….” He quirks his mouth and shrugs up one arm, helpless; Lydia half-expects him to utter an _aw shucks_.

“… to rescind certain privileges?” Lydia deliberately runs her eyes up and down the cook’s body. “While I can understand the, um.  His unconventional philosophies on appropriate discipline, there comes a certain point where it becomes redundant.” She takes a steadying breath.  She is glad Jack isn’t here for this; Todd, at least, can be reasoned with.  “To those ends, I must insist, to keep our rate and quality of production at as high as we can manage, we must keep both our work stations clean, and keep in mind… personal hygiene.”

“That makes a lot of sense.” Todd says, almost to himself. “We’ll get on that.”

Lydia is relieved; she vastly prefers to deal with Todd rather than the rest of Jack’s associates.  She feels as if she should insist on that in the future.  With Todd, she can have an understanding.  He can come to see mutual benefits of keeping the many small cogs of the machine well-oiled.  She favors him with a smile, which he returns wholeheartedly, but her gaze keeps shifting to the cook.  He’s ragged.  His face is swollen to the point of it becoming grotesque.  He’s filthy.  She doesn’t like to see this.  She shouldn’t _have_ to see this.

She can’t stop staring.

“I—I feel like this should be of immediate concern.  We have a deadline.”

Todd seems slightly bewildered.  “Oh… alright.  C’mon, Jesse.”

“I want to watch,” she says, quite without meaning to.  Her heart pounds erratically in her chest.  She feels hot, her ears are burning, and her pulse beats a staccato two-step in her wrists. The cook finally meets her eyes.  Todd’s eyebrows draw together, gobsmacked, his gaze ticking back and forth between them, like a pendulum.  She opens her mouth, but all that comes is a dry click.  She tries again.  “To supervise.  Of course.”

The cook head jerks up, and he _looks_ at her.  “ _What_ the _fuck_?”

Quick as a spider, Todd tugs hard on the cook’s messy mop of hair, nearly pulling him over backwards into a pained arch.  It is startling – sudden violence has always startled her – but in some way it is also exciting.  She tries to hide her rapid, shallow breathing by clearing her throat, smoothing down the front of her pencil skirt.  She merely approves of Todd’s enthusiasm, in the way she approves of all people who take their job seriously and minimize risks.  They wouldn’t be in this situation if certain other parties had Todd’s sense of professionalism.  

After a long moment, Todd lets the cook free to stagger away, trying to catch his balance.  The cook doesn’t seem to realize his legs are free to take full steps, but he manages to keep his feet, hunching up his shoulders when he should be trying to catch himself.  Todd gives the cook the most dejected look Lydia has ever seen on a human face.  “Please don’t swear in front of the lady, Jesse.  It isn’t polite.”  The cook makes half of a jerky nod, and shuffles back into place by Todd.  Lydia approves of this, too, in the way that makes her breath catch.

“Okay.” Once he is assured the cook has fallen back into line, Todd’s smile is beatific and uncomplicated.  He favors the cook with this sunny look.  Lydia can appreciate that.  It’s good to reward your employees; it fosters a sense of unity. “Okay, come along this way.  Watch your step.”  He tugs once on the cook’s arm, but the cook doesn’t budge an inch.  “Jesse.” His voice goes flat.  Lydia shivers.  The cook is still frozen.  “Jesse, I said _come_.”

“I can wash myself,” the cook says, oddly quiet.  She remembers him being quite full of bluster before.  He uneasily casts Lydia another dark look, quick, like she’s something bright and painful that can’t be borne long, before settling back on Todd.  He seems worried.  Lydia doesn’t know why; it isn’t as if she is threatening his life.  “Todd, you don’t— I can do it myself.”

“Clearly that is suspect.” Lydia tilts her chin up. “I _will_ oversee to be certain that this is held to a standard.  Todd, if you will.”

Gentler, now, Todd beckons with one hand.  “Come _on_ , Jesse.”

The cook’s eyes drop back to the ground, and he follows.

Lydia heart races.

 

\--

 

The sun beats on her like a weight, makes the ground copper bright.  She feels like an ant under a glass, caught and cornered with just lidless blue and scrubland for miles.  Lydia wishes she had taken her sunglasses with her from the car.  It was only supposed to be a quick trip, just a check in.  She almost considers sending Todd to retrieve them, but she doesn’t want to be left alone with the cook, not even for an instant.  She knows that sick sense of desperation, that crawling gagging dread of being held hostage.   She knows how to be rabid with fear.

She crosses her arms again, examines the property, the husked buildings, the dust that coats everything as far as the eye can see. Across the way, she can see the tarp and the grate in the ground.  It doesn’t take her more than one guess to figure out what that is. 

She deliberately turns her back on it.  “I was given to understand there is a history of… incidents.” 

Todd is setting up the hose, uncoiling it from its hook with practiced ease.  He hesitates, then nods agreeably.  “Well, yeah.” He gives the cook a worried look from the corner of his eye.  The cook stands by the metal washbasin – the kind Lydia would expect on a farm or in some throwback community play – entirely docile.  Todd seems to regard him as some beloved pet, a dog; but Lydia knows dogs are prone to bite the hand that feeds.  “But Jesse’s _real_ good now.  He is.” Todd sets back to screwing the hose into the hose bib, solemn as anything.  He finishes attaching it and straightens, dusting off his hands.  He looks handsome in this light, sun-kissed and soft mouthed.  “You don’t have to worry, Ms. Quayle.”

“I understand completely, Todd, and I, of course, trust your judgment,” Lydia says, pressing a hand to her chest.  “Still, I would be more comfortable if he was restrained.”

Todd mulls this over for a long moment, then nods decisively. “Alright.” He moves to go back inside, and Lydia is gripped with a feverish panic.  She clears her throat, jitters toward Todd.

“Todd!  Todd, wait, I—I don’t want to…”  She peeks back at the cook.  He stares back at her.  Her heart starts to drum like a bird’s, trying to drag itself out of her throat and away.   Lydia swallows it back down. Her voice drops to a whisper. “I don’t want to be alone with him.”

“Jesse won’t…” Todd sighs, rubs the back of his neck.  “Come here, Jesse.” He pats the side of his leg, a boy beckoning his mongrel.  And the cook comes, just like that.  Lydia is transfixed, watching him obey, bend to Todd’s yoke.  The two disappear inside, and she is left out in the desert.  It's stifling out here, the heat sinking around her, unnatural and thick.  The wind stirs the dust over her shiny shoes, ugly and red.  Her throat tightens.  She decides abruptly that she hates it; she hates the emptiness, the grit, the baked taste to the air, the naked cloudless blue.  She wants cool greys and air conditioning, tiles floors that click crisply with her every step.  She wants to scrub this place from the earth.

Todd comes out with an armload of chains, a bottle of generic liquid soap clutched in one hand.  The cook shuffles after Todd’s easy strides, already limping.  Todd makes him stand by the wall, tells him to get undressed.  Lydia turns her face aside, granting him some privacy. Todd doesn’t look away for a second.  It feels like it takes far longer than it should, like he is purposely dragging out everyone’s misery, but the cook is eventually stripped down to just his bare skin and bruises.  When he is entirely naked, it seems acceptable to see him – once disrobed, there is nothing unique about the human body.

With a tranquil efficiency, Todd attaches the restraints; a loop around the cook’s narrow waist, adjoined to his wrists, his ankles.  With every closed snap, the cook seems to withdraw into himself, only moving when Todd impels him to shift that way, move here, do that.  He rattles and clicks and clinks when he moves, a wind-up tin toy.  Lydia doesn’t care for the sound, but she is comforted nonetheless for it; he has been made into a harmless thing.  She remembers that he once held her life in his hands, he and Mike and Walter.  The memory seems smaller, somehow; a figure disappearing the rearview mirror.

“Thank you, Todd,” she says; she smiles, bright and brittle as a light bulb. “I feel much better now.”

“Not a problem, Ms. Quayle.  I’m happy to make you comfortable.”

“Well,” Lydia says, clapping her hands together briskly.  The cook flinches.  “Shall we begin?”

The cook is first made to stand beside the wall again.  He eyes the ground restlessly, covers his nakedness with his hands as best he can.  Lydia wonders what it is like to be completely exposed, pulled open like an insect, a butterfly on a cork board.  Her skin prickles despite the heat.

The hose valve squeals unnaturally thin and loud in the quiet.  Lydia startles despite herself; this reminds her of the movies, prisoners lining up for execution.  Maybe they should have given him a cigarette first.  But the cook’s not going to be hurt, he isn’t, Lydia doesn’t want to hurt him.  She just wants him to be clean; she just needs it all to be clean.

“Okay, Jesse, you stand right there, alright?  You got that?  Don’t move.”

Lydia can’t help but notice how the cook starts taking quick, frantic breaths.  He looks like he wants to bolt.  She wonders if he will; she thinks it like how she thinks about car crashes on the freeway, a mix of dread and anticipation.

The water sputters and torrents out from the hose with a screech, makes the cook jerk back with a cry.  Is it too hot or too cold?  Lydia can’t decide.  The cook cringes away but doesn’t try to escape, only makes himself small.  The filth and dirt starts to rinse off him, leaving his skin raw and pink and bright under the heavy sun.  Todd moves the spray up, crossing his belly, his chest, his throat.  He sputters, trying to cover his face but his hands can’t reach, leaves him exposed to the hard water, makes him cry out in pain again.  And it goes on and on and on until Todd finally turns the spray away, grinning like a boy at play, and sets the narrow nozzle in the wash basin.  The cook gasps, shivers despite the merciless heat, shrivels up against the wall as if he wants to sink into the concrete.  Too cold, then. 

Todd comes to him then, makes him unwind himself, holds his wrist with infinite tenderness.   He leads him, walking backward, murmuring encouragement, to the basin.  Lydia watches, fascinated, as Todd half-lifts, half-guides him over the high sides, makes him sit in the cold water.  The cook shakes, whimpers; she can hear his teeth clattering together from where she stands.  Todd gets onto his knees beside him, runs an affectionate hand through his hair, ruffling, then taps his chin.  The cook obediently dips his head, and Todd squeezes out some soap into his hair, and starts to scrub.  The chains jangle on the tin, too loud.  The cook's eyes squeeze shut.

It’s strangely comforting.  She remembers when her father used to bathe her and her sister, after her mother left them.  She can almost smell the sharp, tangy scent of the soap, the ghost of her father’s hands pushing into her scalp, big enough to cover her whole, to crush her like a baby bird.  The sound of the water sluicing against the sides of the wash basin makes her ache with the memory of childhood, and then, absurdly, of Kiira.  She’s never bathed Kiira, and the thought makes her shy away, makes her blink rapidly, unsettled.  This is no place for her daughter.  She can feel the perspiration beading on her forehead, like dewdrops; her fitted blouse sticks to the sheen of sweat on her back.  Her thighs are slick. 

Time stretches out, gooey, unformed; she has been here for an age; she is forever trapped under the sun, rooted to this spot.  Her stomach shivers with liquid heat.  She feels tight, reformed; like a vessel, a clay jar, hard and brittle, baked into her shape, her skin filigreed in fine cracks.  She should be sorry.

Todd is smiling.  He fills a bucket with fresh water, dumps it over the cook’s head to rinse away the lather, and it makes the cook shout, shocked.  Todd laughs, the sound like a bell, and he holds the cook’s face with his hands, turning him from side to side, examining him from all angles.  The cook’s eyes are red—from the soap, maybe.  Todd hoists him by his upper arms, and the cook clutches to Todd like a child, shaking too hard to stand on his own.  Todd lifts him over, helps him back into the red dust.

Lydia’s heart strums in her throat.  She wants to scream.  But he’s _clean_ , now, she made him clean, Todd made him clean, made him new again.   Her father’s ghost shrinks behind her, dissolving into the dust.

He’s not hurt.  Lydia’s not hurting him.  She’s not.

He’s clean.

**Author's Note:**

> Criticism welcomed. (Better title suggestions, too.)


End file.
